


Cloudy with a Chance of Fog

by xtwilightzx (blackidyll)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Actors, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackidyll/pseuds/xtwilightzx
Summary: The silence that falls between them is almost awkward. Arthur does not fiddle with the stirrer or chug down the latte in jumpy gulps, but takes it in measured sips. It’s a habit that makes others a bit nervous; Arthur has never minded silence, but everyone else seems to feel the need to fill it up with idle small talk, or to flick him speculative sideways glances that they think he doesn’t notice because he doesn’t bother staring back.It’s almost awkward because Alfred does nothing Arthur’s come to expect. He doesn’t ask questions like the curious, he doesn’t fawn or smile or politely ask for an autograph, as fans normally do, and he doesn’t go back to work, like anyone else who didn’t give a damn would. Instead, he twirls the screwdriver between his fingers, round and round like a metronome, head tilted slightly and watching Arthur steadily.(An AU in which Arthur is an actor of some fame, and Alfred works at a coffee shop).





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the [USxUK LiveJournal community](https://usxuk.livejournal.com/)'s Secret Santa exchange, to the prompt: Arthur and Alfred fall in love despite one of them being a celebrity while the other is a commoner.
> 
> Uploaded at the request of several lovely, lovely anons from my [Tumblr](https://blackidyll.tumblr.com/). It's taken me a long time, but here it is ♥.

Arthur walks along the empty street, his shadow chasing and running ahead of him at turns as he passes street lamp after street lamp. Clouds brew above his head; even without them, the sky is not bright enough to call dawn, and Arthur draws his trench coat tighter around him.

He has maybe an hour before his agent and probably his publicist figure out he’s has gone wandering out in public without notice again. Toris and Feliks are great at their jobs but they work for an actor, and this morning Arthur just wants to be any other regular Briton who happens to be walking around Los Angeles. He's still running on London time and has been up for hours. His makeup artist will have a fit at the shadows under his eyes, but it’s a common battle they wage. With Arthur’s typically pale English skin, even the slightest discoloration in his complexion shows up like bruises.

He’s craving a decent pot of tea badly enough that he ducks into an all-night coffee shop; that, and the imagined controlled fit Toris will have if Arthur caught a cold now. His agent would still likely press meds and liquids on him and clear up his schedule for some rest, but there would be no escaping Felik’s hysterics.

The press of cold glass under his hands is welcoming; so is the warmth of the cafe. Arthur blinks as he makes his way up to the counter. The lights are turned down, dimmed, casting warm umber globes of light across the dark floor. The ever-present aroma of heady coffee and baked goods wraps around him and it’s pleasant even if Arthur prefers the more delicate scent of tea. There’s no one behind the counter, but there’s a little sign made out of folded blue cardboard with a message written in bold marker: _give a holler when you’ve got your order :)_

“Hello?” Arthur calls out, projecting his voice.

“Be right with you!” The answer comes back from past a half-ajar employee’s door behind the counter, only slightly muffled by distance, and Arthur finds himself inexplicably pleased at the acoustics of the room. “Let me know what you want and go ahead and take a seat!”

“Just Earl Grey, thanks.”

Arthur settles himself at a tall table and stool near the wide front windows, half hidden behind a wall column. He unbuttons his trench coat and strips the gloves from his hands, and closes his eyes, trusting the rest of his senses to keep him alert in the quiet cafe.

He lifts his head at the sound of footsteps, and a young man – dishevelled blond hair, bright, bright blue eyes under a pair of red-rimmed glasses, black apron over what looks like hoodie – bustles through the backdoor. He glances immediately in Arthur’s direction, giving a quick little salute of acknowledgment, then reaches over to flick several machines on. He disappears behind a steamer, and soon the sound of bubbling liquid and the hushed grind of machines fill the air.

Arthur closes his eyes again.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

A mug of a frothy, milky drink appears in front of Arthur. He's still jetlagged and lethargic enough that he says the very first thing that comes to mind. "That's not tea."

“There’s Earl Grey in it,” the barista counters. “I thought you’d appreciate it. You know,” he gestures to all of Arthur, then points to the mug with a flourish, “you being British and that being London Fog and all.”

He looks so pleased with himself that Arthur doesn’t quite know how to react. Again, his more acerbic side seizes control. “You do realise that the London Fog recipe came from Canada. British Columbia, I believe.”

He catches the flash of startled almost-hurt only because he’s arching an eyebrow at the barista. A second later, the other man’s expression brightens several notches, wide grin firmly in place. It’s a cover up worthy of any actor pulling in a decent salary. “Then whoever came up with it has got some seriously messed up naming sense.” He pulls a face, running a hand restlessly through his hair. “Or just really bad geography.”

And suddenly Arthur feels like an absolute bastard.

“No – sorry. That’s... unforgivably rude of me.” He resists the urge to scrub at his face and wraps his cold hands around the cup instead. He looks at the barista, catching those blue eyes and holding his gaze. “You went out of your way to make this for me. Thank you.”

For a moment they just stare at each other, and then a corner of the barista’s mouth pulls up into a lopsided, more natural grin. “No biggie. I’m supposed to make drinks, you know, that’s why I stand behind the counter. Barista and all that.”

Arthur gives him a small smile, then lifts the cup to his lips. The tea latte is milky and vanilla sweet on his tongue with the underlying familiarity of Earl Grey; it spreads warmth down his throat into his chest. It’s homey and comforting and rather suited for gloomy predawn, in hindsight.

“You’re Arthur Kirkland.”

Arthur’s head snaps up, startled. All right, he’s not exactly obscure – he’s been in the industry for well over a decade – but Arthur knows his fame’s mostly confined to his native country. To be so easily recognised across the pond, when he’s not at any event where people expect to see him, is a bit unnerving – especially when the barista doesn’t sound or act at all like a fan.

The barista grins and waves a hand in the air as if to dismiss all concerns. “Mattie was dead gone on _Grey_ when it came out. He always liked the dramatic, more philosophical stuff. So I’ve watched that movie a couple of times.”

Arthur raises the cup, taking a sip of the brew automatically. “You recognized me from that? It was a supporting role.” _My hair was dyed platinum blonde, my profile was always cast in shadow and I carried a guitar in almost every scene I was in_ , he didn’t add. 

The barista shrugs, leaning his chin on his cupped palm, his other hand fiddling with a – is that a screwdriver? “I work at a coffee shop. I’m good with faces.”

“Oh.” Arthur eyes the young man across for him for a moment, then – because they’ve done everything backwards this morning – replies with, “And you’re Alfred.”

The caffeine and sugar has kicked in, because he hadn’t noticed the nametag until that moment, but Alfred grins at him. “That’s me, yep.”

The silence that falls between them is almost awkward. Arthur does not fiddle with the stirrer or chug down the latte in jumpy gulps, but takes it in measured sips. It’s a habit that makes others a bit nervous; Arthur has never minded silence, but everyone else seems to feel the need to fill it up with idle small talk, or to flick him speculative sideways glances that they think he doesn’t notice because he doesn’t bother staring back.

It’s almost awkward because Alfred does nothing Arthur’s come to expect. He doesn’t ask questions like the curious, he doesn’t fawn or smile or politely ask for an autograph, as fans normally do, and he doesn’t go back to work, like anyone else who didn’t give a damn would. Instead, he twirls the screwdriver between his fingers, round and round like a metronome, head tilted slightly and watching Arthur steadily.

Arthur arches an eyebrow.

“You look beat.”

Arthur feels his eyebrows jump. “So do you,” he points out, because Alfred’s alert, restless enough that numerous cups of coffee is likely to be involved, but he’s got that worn, slightly unwound look to him that Arthur’s far too familiar with. “And don’t tell me it’s because you work at an all-night cafe.”

Alfred shrugs. “It’s true, though. We get a lot of college students really late at night and the cafe’s pretty cosy even at like three, but it’s hard to get someone in at 5 a.m., so I just stay up.”

“You didn’t sleep at all?”

Alfred shoots him a grin. “We’re not really in the business district or anything so we don’t get much of a morning crowd. It’s peaceful. Gives me a chance to do my tinkering.” He wobbles the screwdriver in Arthur’s direction.

“Not just tinkering.”

“Hmm?”

Arthur curls one hand around his now half-empty mug. “It’s important enough, or you’re passionate enough to make time for it, prioritize it over sleep. You’re not just tinkering.”

Alfred shoots him a considering look, and then grins.

“You’re right.” He jerks his head towards the counter. “No, depending on the night, I sometimes pull shots, blend different drinks, practice latte art, you know, the stuff good baristas do. The rest of the time – I fix things. Maintain and program the machines. Invent stuff, for a very generous definition of the word ‘invent’.”

The last sentence is spoken with an affected air, enough that Arthur knows Alfred’s quoting someone, but Alfred says it in a fond enough tone that it has to be from someone close, made in a teasing manner.

“You’re an engineer.”

Alfred’s eyes are bright under his glasses. “Yeah. I guess you can say that.”

Arthur takes a long draw from his cup, swirls the mouthful over his tongue to savour the milky, fragrant taste, and the thought is still there when he swallows. He gives in. “You didn’t draw any designs on my latte.”

“It’s a tinkering night, sorry. My brain’s stuck on analytics and electrical circuits and mathematical formulae. I’ll draw you one next time.”

If Feliks were here, his publicist would declare that they’re flirting with each other. They’re not, Arthur’s doesn’t intend it, but he can’t help his interest; there’s something about this half-mad young man that catches at him.

His phone vibrates, a jolt against his side, and the moment slips away; he always forgets to set it back to ringing after leaving a set or getting off the plane. He fishes it out of his pocket and glances at the ID.

“I have to take this.”

“Sure,” Alfred says, and tips his stool back, hopping off and disappearing back behind the counter. Arthur watches him walk away for a moment, then connects the call. “Good morning, Toris.”

“All right, Arthur?” Toris’ voice comes across the line, warm and slightly concerned.

Arthur brushes idle fingertips against the empty cup. “I needed to clear my mind before I go on set later.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out; he still feels a little worn from the lack of sleep and the flying, but his mind is calm and startling clear, and there’s a warm core of certainty in the centre of his chest – a feeling of heightened confidence that, Arthur’s come to notice, precedes some of his best performances. “It’s going to be a good show, today.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I know the sudden change in location and time zone and weather get to a lot of people. Actors are no exception. Want me to meet you where you are?”

“No, I’ll come back to the hotel.” Arthur glances out the wide windows; weak sunlight is beginning to filter through the cloud cover, washed out and worn against the rooftops of the buildings across the street. It reminds Arthur a little of London at this time of year.

He makes his goodbyes to Toris and reaches for his wallet, bypassing the pound and Euro notes for the dollar bills, counting out a generous tip, when Alfred comes back, a takeaway cup in hand.

“On the house. Seriously. You look like you need half a dozen London Fogs. You should just switch to coffee. And—” Alfred interrupts before Arthur can speak, grinning – one would almost think he delights in interrupting, Arthur thinks idly, “—before you get all self-righteous on getting freebies, that tip you’re leaving is more than enough to cover another latte.”

Arthur blinks, and Alfred shoves the cup into his hands.

“Thanks,” he says belatedly, and there’s a little smile stealing across his lips, he can feel it. “I’ll let you get back to your tinkering, then.”

“It’s not tinkering, remember?” Alfred shoots back, and there’s a minute pause before they react, Alfred snickering into one hand and Arthur chuckling quietly.

“Have a good day,” Arthur says, lifting the takeaway cup in silent thanks again, and heads towards the exit.

“You should have won the Globe.”

Arthur’s thoughts screech to a halt; his body follows along, his hand freezing on the bar of the cafe’s door. He turns around. “Sorry?”

Alfred’s tossing the screwdriver up and snatching it from the air now, a smooth rolling movement; he doesn’t even need to look at what his hand is doing. “Edgar, in _Grey_. Obsessed guitarist bent on composing one song of glory. That scene with Anya, when you’re just dead-out driven to capture the music—yeah. Not going to forget that any time soon.” He catches the screwdriver one last time and returns it to his pocket, then steps over and lightly flicks Arthur between the eyes. “You’ve got the same light in your eyes right now. Dangerously in love with what you do.”

It’s always, always flattering when fans tell him they love his acting, his shows, but this—this is different. Arthur’s more than flattered; he’s absurdly happy, it’s creeping up on him, and he has to duck his head before an incredulous smile can take his face.

He pushes Alfred’s hand out of his face, catching and holding Alfred’s gaze when his vision’s no longer blocked. “‘Dangerously in love with what you do,’” he says softly. “Takes one to know one.” 

Alfred’s eyes widen; Arthur has caught him off-guard this time, and Arthur has to smirk a little, let a bit of his acting presence filter into his posture.

When he speaks, however, it’s not an act at all. “Thank you for the drink and the conversation, tinkerer.”

Alfred recovers quickly. He lifts his chin, and salutes Arthur with his screwdriver. “Any time.”

Arthur slides out the door with Alfred’s gaze on his back.

\---

**_From the red carpet of the Golden Globes_ **

( _It’s open season on the red carpet. Actresses in dresses of all colours, although the weather means more shawls and heavier fabrics, and actors in their tailored suits - it’s all in the details for them. The cut, the subtle patterns, tie or bow tie, cufflinks, polished shoes. A young man strides behind the waves of couples; he’s alone but comfortable in the fact, the calm, confident air around him pulling the eye, his fluid movements arresting attention. His hair is windswept, but the man himself appears impeccable in a well-tailored suit that hugs all his slim lines and a tie that sets off his green eyes. It’s not quite his turn with the interviewers and he waits, taking the time to survey his surroundings, the crowd beyond the barriers, but the interviewer swings eagerly in his direction; he’s quick on his feet, looking straight into the camera and smiling, then tilting his head towards the interviewer to hear him better through the din of noise)_

 **Interviewer:** And here's an up and coming star who is charming lords and ladies alike with his nuanced ways and intense performances. Propelled into international limelight for his supporting role in the award-winning psychological thriller _Grey,_ for which he was nominated for a Globe two years ago, and well-loved for playing the Lord Williams on British series _Chatsworth House_ – it's Arthur Kirkland!

 **Arthur Kirkland:** Good evening.

 **I:** You're making waves, Arthur. There's been quite a buzz about you. 

 **AK:** Yes, I hadn't quite realized. ( _he gives an acknowledging nod to the crowd and smiles the slow, quiet smile that is his trademark; the screams and applause from the audience swells_ ). It doesn't really sink in until you're in front of an audience like this.

 **I:** I saw you on TV last weekend, in fact, trading barbs with the detective team of _Autopsis (in an aside for uninitiated audiences)_ Arthur plays a visiting forensics expert in the hit investigative series, folks. ( _turns back)_ You were really very good.

 **AK:** It's kind of you to say so. Peter's a guest role so I'm afraid you won't see me after this season, but it's been a pleasure.

 **I:** How are you finding America? You've been spending quite a bit of time in L.A.

 **AK:** Yes, I’ve been working on a few projects here, actually. The people are friendly, the work is rewarding, and I must confess - it's a lot sunnier here than it would be in London.

 **I:** Speaking of London...

 **AK:** Yes?            

 **I:** We have to talk about this film you'll be shooting. We haven't gotten many details about the storyline, but we know one big thing. The central role and your first leading role in a major blockbuster: the human personification of the United Kingdom. You're playing a nation, your own, in fact! You have to tell us about that.

 **AK:** ( _his face goes serious, the slight smile fading into a steady, neutral line. He tilts his head, and even here in the crowd, the line of his jaw is suddenly regal, his eyes bright and alive with emotion_ ). It's - very flattering. It’s an honour. And rather intimidating, to be honest. What is a country, a nation, away from the government and politics? It's the collective hopes and dreams and culture of a people, and I will have to encompass the best and worst of that ideal.

 **I:** And it's set shortly before World War II.

 **AK:** It’s not a Holocaust film, but yes, it’s set in that volatile, limbo period. That setting speaks volumes on its own, doesn't it?

 **I:** It sounds intense.

 **AK:** It is. The script is brilliant -- it's raw, and personification or not, it's very human. ( _his voice softens, almost velvety low_ ). It'll be a challenge, but what an opportunity. 

 **I:** ( _jokingly_ ) You're British, that helps.

 **AK:** ( _chuckles)_ Oh, I'm a Briton through and through. The Queen and country, _The Beatles_ on my music player, and football on the weekends. I’m terribly boring when I’m off the set.

 **I:** I’m sure that crowd over there would disagree. _(makes a show of looking around)_ I see lots of lovely ladies around, but no plus one for you today?

 **AK:** ( _laughs)_ No, not quite. I’m here with friends, you know, catching up with a few classmates, cheering on some colleagues.

 **I:** I’m sure the ladies will be happy to hear that you’re still on the market... for now.

 **AK:** ( _blushes slightly)_ Now you’re just flattering me. 

 **I:** One last question before we let you go -- I can see they're impatient for you further down the carpet. The eternal debate: coffee or tea?

 **AK:** ( _instantly)_ Tea. ( _they laugh)_ But I've been enamoured by a hybrid of it, of late. 

 **I:** And that would be?

 **AK:** A tea latte. London Fog. I drink it quite often here. ( _he looks away, a quiet, enigmatic smile on his face – there’s definitely an inside story here, a look that many a fan will pour over and speculate on when the footage goes out, but that the interviewer misses)_.

 **I:** Patriotic indeed!

 **AK:** ( _a flicker of surprise crosses his face before his smile widens)_ When you put it that way, I suppose so.

 **I:** Ladies and gentlemen, Arthur Kirkland!

 **AK:** Thank you very much.

( _they shake hands. The interviewer murmurs a few quick words, grinning, and Arthur smiles back, before glancing back up, giving a small wave at cameras flashing all around him)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> London Fog is made from Earl Grey tea, steamed milk and vanilla syrup. It's delicious.
> 
> \--  
> When I first posted this fic on my LJ for the US/UK Secret Santa exchange, the interview from the carpet of the Golden Globes did not include the segment on Arthur's new film. While plotting the fic it got vastly out of hand and I realized that if I wrote everything I wanted to write in this verse, I wouldn't make the deadline. So I took out all mention of the film and posted the fic as a oneshot. I planned to write the rest of the fic and repost the entire thing at a later date. 
> 
> Uh. That didn't happen. Real life has been utterly insane and the plot continued to grow. Ideally it would have included the filming and up to the release of the film, and how that filming affects Arthur and Alfred's relationship, but at this point, my lack of time to write and involvement in other fandoms means I don't think I'll ever have a chance to write out this verse in its entirety. 
> 
> At the same time, I am terribly fond of this AU, and I've written quite a few scenes. So rather than leave this as a one-shot, over time I'll be cleaning up and posting those scenes as excerpts or outtakes from this universe. These are often pivotal scenes so they should still carry the idea of the story I would have liked to tell in full, and hopefully people will enjoy these peeks into this universe as much as I enjoyed writing them.


	2. Publicist Woes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When are you going to get a girlfriend so I’ll have some scandals to cover up? Seriously, Kirkland, you’re not giving me much of a challenge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first of several outtakes from the _Cloudy with a Chance of Fog_ universe. 
> 
> To all the lovely people who have asked about this verse and expressed their love for it - these are for you ♥.

“Toris made a good choice getting you that guest role on _Autopsis_. Most of the reviews on the season finale last week credit your character for bringing a fresh edgy angle to the storyline. You’ve always been popular back in Britain but people in the States are starting to _really_ notice you. I can’t wait until you get more than a cult following over here.”

Feliks gathers the articles and statistics and reviews into a messy pile, and shoves them into a folder before sliding it all over to Arthur.

The neat-freak in Arthur twitches and he reaches out automatically for the folder, trying to tidy the notes into at least manageable categories. “I thought most publicists appreciate an employer who didn’t make too many waves.”

“How long have you known me now? It’s not fun unless I can sink my teeth into a worthy adversary. Your fans in Britain are always so polite, like they’re afraid they’ll scare you off.”

Leaning his head on one hand, Feliks reaches for the tray of snacks Arthur rarely partakes of – theirs is a relationship of blurred boundaries, Arthur thinks with some amusement; Feliks lets him indulge in his sometimes obsessive need for control, and Arthur lets Feliks get away with stealing his food and nagging him almost half to death.

“Fans of any kind are a joy to every actor,” Arthur says.

“When are you going to get a girlfriend so I’ll have some scandals to cover up? Seriously, Kirkland, you’re not giving me much of a challenge.”

Arthur’s phone buzzes once, interrupting Feliks, and Arthur pulls the device over to him, smiling when he sees the name attached to the message that came in. He makes a move to unlock his phone, but glances up beforehand, feeling the weight of a stare on him. His publicist’s eyes are trained on the phone in Arthur’s hand, and Arthur flips the screen facedown before he even realizes it, hiding it from sight.

“Who are you texting?”

Arthur shoves the phone into his pocket and stares steadily back against Felik’s suddenly calculating look. “Just a friend.”

It’s almost scary the way Felik’s eyes light up. “A lady friend, then?”

“No.”

Feliks pops a chocolate covered almond in his mouth. “That’s better. Like, way better than zip, zero, nada. I can definitely work with a boyfriend.”

“ _What?_ ”               

“Kirkland,” Feliks drawls, drawing out the syllables of Arthur’s name. It should make Feliks sound relaxed and languid, but Arthur knows better; Feliks is at his most dangerous when he appears innocuous. “I’ve seen you with that Frenchman so you really _can’t_ be protesting for the reasons it sounds like you’re protesting.”

The implication washes all the shock from Arthur, dropping him back into his usual calm coolness. “Francis, Feliks, really? I’d sooner date you.”

The cheerful light appears back in Feliks’ eyes. “You have good taste, but I’m spoken for. Sooooo… boyfriend?”

Arthur huffs out a half-exasperated breath. “I’m not opposed to a boyfriend, but no. Just a friend.”

“It’s that barista at the café, isn’t it?” At Arthur’s startled look, Feliks simply flicks a manicured hand at him. “Oh please, what kind of third-rate publicist do you think I am? If the fans are starting to realize that that’s a place you frequent, you can bet I noticed it at least a month before they did. You’re welcome for keeping the worst of the rumours from the tabloids, by the way.”

Arthur takes a moment to reflect on that. “Thank you.” He hesitates, but goes on anyway. “Do I need to change my pattern?”

The slight pause is worrying, but Feliks finally shakes his head. “Nothing wrong with frequenting a favourite café. You’ve been well-behaved, and so has Jones.” Neither of them says anything about the name drop, but Arthur knows it means Feliks has run discreet checks on Alfred. “Just start ordering London Fogs when you’re at other places, okay? At least occasionally. Or someone will start realizing you’re going to the café for the barista and not just for the lattes.” 

“It was one throwaway comment in one interview.”

“On the carpet of the Golden Globes, and seriously, do you know how popular you’re getting? People keep track of things like that. And with the internet, they can just rewatch the video a dozen times to catch everything they missed on like, the fifth view.”

Arthur runs a hand distractedly through his hair. “How in the world do you keep track of everything?”

“I am kickass and fabulous. Toris tells me you’re getting a few inquiries from Hollywood – discreet, but there’s been a couple – which is only going to boost your reputation. Hollywood is big fish.” Feliks rolls his eyes. “As if Tee-Arr-Double-You isn’t going to kick up your prestige a couple of notches already.”

“T-R-W?”

Feliks arches an eyebrow at him. “Like, you know? The acronym for the title of that _little_ movie with the _tiny_ role you’re currently shooting for?”

“They haven’t finalized that yet. David’s been chalking it down as _Albion_ on the slates. Toris calls it ‘that human-nations film.’”

Feliks shoots him a look with distinct _oh-you-poor-sweet-innocent-lamb_ vibes. “They finalized it last night. David will formally announce the title before filming starts tomorrow. It’s highly secret and that’s like, totally up my alley? I hoard my employer’s secrets like a jealous dragon and manipulate everyone else’s to your and my benefit?”

Arthur shakes his head, but he can’t help the slight smile. He hired Feliks for a number of reasons, not least because he and Toris seem to come in a sort of package deal (whether Toris or Arthur wanted it or not), and not only because Feliks is very, very good at his job. No, it’s because for all that their personalities should clash, they are somehow friends – and Arthur trusts him.

“What was I thinking?” he says. “You’re right. Of course you’d know.”

Feliks tosses his head. “So. Want to be spoiled? Or are you a man who prefers the allure of mystery? Come on, you know you want to know. You’re a good actor, you can fake being surprised tomorrow.”

“Some days I want to throttle you, but most of the time I’m just glad you’re on my side,” Arthur says truthfully.

“Like I said. Kickass and fabulous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The David Feliks mentions in the scene is the director of Arthur's movie, and is named so because at the time when I first started this verse, David Cameron was still the PM of the UK :P 
> 
> I've got... maybe four or five bits of scenes/outtakes from this verse, but I'm currently working on a really huge Reverse Bang challenge for another fandom ( _Yuri on Ice_ , if anyone is a fan of that as well!) so I will clean up and post more when I finish that challenge fic in a couple of months. 
> 
> Feel free to ask me questions about this verse, and I might answer in a ficlet or two. I'll cover more info about Arthur's new movie in the outtakes, and of course, his growing friendship/relationship with Alfred :).


	3. Marks On Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm going to evoke the law of the internet. Visual evidence or the rumor's a fake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings. You may thank [a very very lovely anon on Tumblr](https://blackidyll.tumblr.com/post/184439055070/hi-how-goes-life-and-working-on-cloudy-with-a) for me finally cleaning up this piece and adding a bunch of words to it. 
> 
> This is set about ten months after Alfred and Arthur's first meeting, so they're very much closer to each other now.

"I'm going to evoke the law of the internet. Visual evidence or the rumor's a fake."

Arthur huffs out an irritated breath. " _I'm_ telling you this; you're not reading it off some fansite. I assure you it's true."

"What is it?" Alfred’s ever restless hands are playing with his pencil; his glasses are smudged, but his eyes are bright with glee behind them. "Oh man, it's somewhere embarrassing, isn't it? What did you do, get the tattoo across your ass or something?"

Arthur flushes. "I did not! It's on my left shoulder. I was going through a phase, not completely out of my senses." Some lingering sense of honour nags at him and he grudgingly admits, "Although I might have been roaringly drunk when I let Francis talk me into it."

"A phase. A tattoo-getting, booze-chugging phase." Alfred stares at Arthur for a long minute, and Arthur can practically see the gears turning in Alfred’s head and the moment realization dawns. "That's why you were so intensely real as that crazy guitarist in _Grey_! That's you, you really were a crazy guitarist at some point!"

"I was a teenager once, all right? I bet you wrecked absolute havoc as a teen."

"I once built a combustion chamber in the garage because mom wouldn’t let me use the kitchen. I accidentally took out the garage door and a part of the wall."

"Case in point. An absolute terror."

Alfred flicks residual eraser bits in Arthur’s direction, the schematic drawings he’d been working on temporarily forgotten. "Yeah, but I’m still a part-time barista and full-time tinkerer of mechanical and physical science. You, however, imagine your fans’ shock if they found out! Arthur Kirkland, the very picture of British charm, darling of the movie industry, has a wild side to him." He laughs. “They’ve obviously never gotten into a fight with you, or seen how grumpy you get when you don’t hit your minimum quota of tea per day. Still though. You. A tattoo.”

Arthur smiles wryly. “Wait until you see it first.”

Alfred lets his stool crash back onto four legs. “You’ll show me?”

The question makes Arthur pause. He’s quite a private person, wild days notwithstanding. It’s one thing for costume and makeup to see that tattoo – it’s almost inevitable when dressing for stage productions, especially when he has to fly from costume to costume in a matter of minutes to make his cue back on stage – but to deliberately show off the tattoo for its own merit, not as an accidental viewing from another action—

He’s had lovers who have never seen that tattoo, back before his schedule and the rumour mill made it infinitely harder to carry on casual flings.

“All right,” he says anyway, because there’s a curious look in Alfred’s eyes, warm and gleeful and deeply intense behind all that, and it makes it easier for Arthur to ignore the faint buzz under his skin and reach for the top buttons of his Oxford shirt.

He slips off his stool, loosening just enough buttons to let the shirt dip off his shoulder, and turns so Alfred can get a full view of the tattoo, fixing his gaze on the half-shut door to ignore the heavy weight of Alfred’s stare.

Who was the last person to see that tattoo? Oh right. The person who made him get it.

Fucking Francis. Arthur had been somewhat out of control during his teenage years but the addition of Francis to the equation just made them both exponentially more reckless. Arthur had been dearly disappointed when he woke up with a blinding hangover and _didn’t_ find Francis with the Gallic rooster plastered over his hip. Still, even in the depths of drunkenness the Frenchman had chosen an iris, which together with Arthur’s own tattoo said depressingly much about their odd patriotism to their respective home countries.

At least Francis’s chosen tattoo artist was highly professional. She hadn’t actually tattooed them that night – Arthur distinctly remembers her cheerfully aggressive _drunkards get the flat end of my boot, not the sharp point of my needles_ – but Francis had friendship, charm and his damned silver tongue on his side; he’d wheedled and wheedled and wheedled, and finally gotten his way, as always.

Carinne was as vibrant and lively as her native Seychelles and was probably too skilled to indulge two drunken teenagers, but she’d sketched designs directly onto their skin with a fine-tipped ink brush, and then fleeced them for all they were worth when she rang up their bills. But four hundred pounds poorer or not, Arthur had stared at the sketch in the mirror over his shoulder, red-eyed and in pain and terribly taken, and by the next day, he was back at her shop, sober this time.

The result is the beautifully detailed artwork Arthur wears proudly on his skin, hidden though it normally is under layers or propriety and clothing. As most good things are, he’d gotten it done in multiple stages; both he and Francis had followed up with the subsequent appointments for colour and shading, and further touch ups since then.

The robin tattooed over Arthur’s left shoulder is in flight, appearing almost to leap off his skin on its next wing beat. It should look quaint, this small little bird with its delicate-looking legs curled under its body, feathers individually rendered, orange breast and black eyes standing in stark contrast to Arthur’s pale skin; instead, it looks infinitely regal, the United Kingdom’s national bird riding the shoulder of a Briton.

A phantom touch against the tattoo startles Arthur from his thoughts. He glances over his shoulder.

Alfred isn’t quite touching him, although his hand hovers close enough that Arthur can feel warmth ghosting along his skin, tracing over what’s likely to be the outer edges of the robin’s wings.

“A robin?” Alfred’s voice is quiet.

Arthur nods. “The national bird of the United Kingdom.”

“Wow,” Alfred says. “This has got to be some kind of fortune-telling tattoo.”

“Because I’m British and got a somewhat patriotic design?” Arthur says sarcastically, suddenly feeling vulnerable and receding behind his prickly persona in a bid to regain control over the conversation.

But Alfred just rolls his eyes, blithely shrugging off Arthur’s irritation with the ease of familiarity. “No, because of your new movie. The personification of a nation should be surrounded by his national symbols, right? Like, America would definitely have a bald eagle design somewhere.” He tilts his head, and then breaks into a bright grin. “They should give Albion a robin in the movie. Like… you know, an animal companion that stays with him throughout the long centuries of his nation-life.”

Arthur flushes. It’s just the cold air that’s raising goosebumps on his skin, he tells himself. He wants badly to cover up his shoulder, button up his shirt all the way to his collar once more, but Alfred hasn’t moved away, and Arthur doesn’t want to give away how self-conscious he feels.

“You’ll laugh when you hear the title of my movie, then,” Arthur says instead, turning his head away to stare straight in front of him, trying to ignore Alfred’s presence at his back. “They finalized it a while back but won’t be announcing it until the next press conference.”

“What is it?” Alfred asks easily, innocent of the weight of his question, and this time Arthur does step away, masking it by turning around to face Alfred and sliding his shirt back over his shoulders, although he leaves the two buttons undone for now.

The details of any high-profile movie – especially in this day and age of modern technology, where a single leaked story could break over social media and blaze out of control within hours – are worth a high price indeed, and although Arthur’s project is an independent film, it has already generated a massive buzz just based on the stars, the premise and the pre-production press alone. Arthur feels the pressure of it, the deep-seated need to give Albion the performance the character deserves, and a protectiveness over the entire project, for it to succeed and thrive on its own merit. He doesn’t want to it undercut by untimely leaks or rumours, and – well, both Feliks and the production’s PR team would skin Arthur alive if he disclosed anything without their permission.

But this is Alfred, who doesn’t care about the glitz and glamour, who asks not because of hungering curiosity or for want of juicy inside news, but because he knows how important the project is to Arthur.

Alfred is sweet and boisterous and also rather greedy – everything that Arthur loves and enjoys he wants to know about, even if it’s just so he can tease Arthur about it later.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Arthur says, although his voice is already softening, the weight of a secret about to be given wings and released in flight. “Not even Matthew.”

“You know Mattie is better at keeping his mouth shut, right?” Alfred says with a laugh.

Arthur knows Alfred’s cousin – although they are close enough that they are more like brothers – well enough to agree. But it doesn’t matter if it’s Matthew or one of the many café regulars whom Arthur has grown close to or a complete stranger; Arthur wouldn’t contemplate doing this if it isn’t Alfred standing in front of him.

He lets a little of the regal majesty that Albion commands into his bearing, and steps close, tipping his chin up to stare Alfred straight in the eyes. Alfred’s eyes go wide, his glasses slipping down his nose, but he stands his ground admirably. Arthur smiles, slow and confident and sensual, and underneath that is his own overwhelming fondness.  

“It is a secret I’m giving to you, Alfred. You shouldn’t pass on gifts to someone else.” 

The way Alfred’s eyes brighten with delight – at Arthur indulging him, at Arthur _trusting_ him – could put a supermodel’s beauty to shame. It’s pure self-preservation that makes Arthur go up on his toes, leaning in close to whisper the name in Alfred’s ear—

“ _The Robin’s Wing_. That is the official name of my movie.”

—and Alfred’s breath catches, loud and obvious in the scant space between them.

Arthur pulls back, letting Albion’s personality fade away, and studies Alfred curiously. There’s a very odd look on Alfred’s face – he’s smiling, his cheeks sporting a warm blush, and although his eyes are still delighted there’s something unfathomable behind them. Then he blinks, relaxing, and begins laughing.

“You totally got a fortune-telling tattoo! Oh my god, the paparazzi would have a field day with this.”

“And that’s why the paparazzi are not privy to the details of my private life.”

Alfred hums, something he’s wont to do when he’s made out a breakthrough on one of his designs and is feeling awfully pleased about it. “I like it.” He mouths the words, _The Robin’s Wing_ , as if saying it out loud would break a spell, and grins. “I really like it. I’m not superstitious but man, Arthur, your movie’s going to do great.”

“Is it?” Arthur smiles back in return. “Your confidence is flattering, considering we haven’t really begun principal photography. I’ll take it as good luck.”

Alfred laughs louder now, and sticks a thumbs up in Arthur’s face. “Of course! Hero’s lucky charm, one hundred percent guaranteed.”

Arthur wants to laugh with him, and the warm glow in his chest is still there, but the mention of principal photography is a sudden reminder of what he came here to say, before their unplanned detour into tattoos and film names. All things that soar must eventually come back to earth, and Arthur swallows, steels himself.

He forces it out before he can second-guess himself. "Speaking of my film, I'm leaving for London next weekend."

"Oh." Surprise colours Alfred’s voice for a moment, before a grin spreads over his face. “Well, no shortage of tea over there. You’ll finally be in the right place for a cup of London Fog.”

Sometimes, Arthur hated this gulf between their worlds, although in all honesty, Arthur can’t blame Alfred. Alfred leads a normal life with a steady paying job at the café; his engineering projects speak of constancy – long months working on something in the workshop, even if those workshop hours varied from tedious repeat test trials to absolute wild chaos. "I'm... not going to be back for at least six months, Alfred. I-If I’m able to come back at all."

The hush that falls between them is deafening. Arthur, who normally is perfectly happy in silence and solitude, finds himself babbling to cover it up.

"I’ve done some preliminary shooting here, but the bulk of the movie will be shot on location around the UK with the other cast members. That’s almost two months of filming, and then I have a few small projects to handle in Europe, and then wrapping up on the rest of the film."

Arthur misses England, had missed it for a long time, and Toris handled his schedule accordingly, piling events together so he could stay in London for the intervals between his filming. Arthur has cameos in friends' stage productions and charity work, and Francis called in his once-a-year, “you owe me for not drowning you or letting you drown when you were a starving actor and I a marginally better off fashion designer” favour, and so Arthur will be shipping out to Paris to be a grudgingly-willing living mannequin for the Paris Fashion Week, and then there's post-production for  _The Robin’s Wing_  and publicity tours to make.

This schedule had been set mere weeks after Arthur signed onto _The Robin’s Wing_. And here he is, a few short months later, wondering when Alfred had become such an integral part of his life in Los Angeles, to the point where Arthur knows that leaving will feel like he’s digging up roots that have grown deep into bedrock.

“But you live here,” Alfred finally says. “And L.A. is _the_ hub for filmmaking in the States.”

“I’m only here for work,” Arthur says. “My home… that’s in London. I was always going to go back to England, eventually. _The Robin’s Wing_ just made that return sooner.”

“Oh.”

That single, plaintive sound is the most succinct Arthur has ever heard Alfred being – normally the part-time barista and full-time mechanical engineer has plenty to say about everything and everyone. Arthur stares down at the floor, and begins doing up the last buttons of his shirt, putting himself back together in a semblance of control.

“Hey, Artie.”

Arthur snaps his gaze back up, the retort automatic on his tongue. “My name is _Arthur_.”

Alfred grins at him. There’s a wry twist to it, but it’s heartfelt enough that Arthur’s heart squirms in his chest.

“Yeah, I know. Um, you caught me off guard. But that’s my problem! I’ll deal with it! It has nothing to do with you!”

The way Alfred starts losing his composure the more he speaks teases a smile back out of Arthur. “Does it not?”

“No,” Alfred insists, which is such a blatant lie that Arthur can say nothing against it. “A-ny-wa-ay, it’s a trade-off thing, right? All things return to equilibrium. You have to go, which sucks, but it means you’re heading towards this amazing film project that you’ve always dreamed of. And that’s a good thing.”

He nods his head once, decisive, and barrels on before Arthur can think of a reply. “Let me know when you have a couple of hours free next week, okay? I’ll do something, maybe Feli will let me shut down the café for a while, do up a nice ‘heck, you’re leaving! Hurrah, movie!’ party for you. It’ll be invite only.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Alfred says firmly, and he’s back to normal now, lively and enthusiastic as always. “You’re one of our regulars, you know. Special privileges apply.”

Arthur pauses, tallying up the weeks. “You know, considering how often I’m on set or off on jobs, I do spend an inordinate amount of time in your café. It’s been about ten months, hasn’t it?”

“Ten months and nine days since you walked into _The Bean and Leaf._ ” Alfred sounds like he’s rattling off a statistic learned by rote, except he winces the moment the words come out his mouth.

“Trust an engineer to be analytic to the bone and know his calculations down to the day,” Arthur says, amused.

Alfred takes a peek at him, as if searching for a reaction. When Arthur simply blinks at him, he breaks back into a grin. “Baristas too – gotta know how long that tea’s been steeping for or how many shots we’ve put in the cup, y’know!”

“Of course.”

Alfred thumps himself back at the table, but instead of going back to work on his schematic, he pulls over a fresh sheet of paper and begins scribbling. Arthur can’t make out his chicken scratch, especially upside down, but he has a feeling Alfred is getting a head start on planning his farewell party.

Arthur glances around the small employee backroom, the space Alfred treats as his brainstorming centre, where he dreams up wild and impossible ideas while surrounded by the lingering perfume of fresh bread and heady coffee. The Bean and Leaf Café is always empty during this liminal hour before dawn, after the insomniac college kids have finally left for their beds but before the morning working crowd; Arthur, whose unconventional job sometimes involves jetlag inducing travels and monstrously early morning calls, has taken to joining Alfred during his odd-shifts.

During these times, Arthur doesn’t take his usual seat out in the café-proper; instead Alfred makes up a London Fog or some wildly unpredictable drink – it’s always one or the other – for him and they sit in the backroom instead, Alfred bent over his notes and Arthur over his drink, sometimes in silence, sometimes with light banter, but always together.

Arthur will miss this.

Alfred shoves another sheet of paper under Arthur’s nose, together with a soft graphite pencil. “You better make a list of the café-regulars you like. I mean, I can sort of tell when you have your ‘I’m fake smiling but I really just want to enjoy my tea in peace, go away’ face on, but it's hard to tell sometimes. I’m always game to throw out anyone’s that’s bugging you, but it would kind of ruin the party.” He shrugs. “Or maybe you’d enjoy it, you former teenage rebel you.”

Arthur wants to splutter at him, but Alfred is doodling in the margins of his paper, absentminded, his way of keeping his hands busy while thinking: a delicate motif of roses and robins – Arthur’s favourite flower and the bird that rides his left shoulder – bordering the list he’d started, already expanding halfway down the page.

 _No_ , a very private and quiet part of Arthur whispers, finally admits, quantifies.  _I will miss_ him _._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have more to share for this verse, but as you can see, it does take me an age to get them done. I can't really promise when I'll update, but yes, there will eventually be updates. I hope you're enjoying this verse in the mean time :)


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